


Changeling

by dendraica



Category: Wolverine And The X-Men (Cartoon)
Genre: Backstory, Gen, Grief and Loss, Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-01
Updated: 2015-12-01
Packaged: 2018-05-04 07:57:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5326586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dendraica/pseuds/dendraica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mortimer Toynbee could never have had it easy growing up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story and others can also be read from my ff.net account: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/58306/Foxieglove

The trouble with the screen door was that it always banged shut. No matter how carefully you tried to release it against the frame, the spring mechanism would overcompensate for it. Even now the aluminum clanged harshly, accompanied by a twelve-year old voice groaning in frustration as he utterly failed to be sneaky.

Mort gave the door a dirty look of betrayal as he heard his father call for him in the living room. On a good day, this wouldn't have been a problem. He'd have let the door slam, grabbed a Sunkist from the fridge, and then would practically hang off the back of his father's armchair to deliver an earful of chatter about his day.

This had not been a very good day.

He skipped the beverage, despite the fact that a cold can would feel very good against his swelling eye, and reluctantly trudged into the living room.

"Oh, Mort," his father sighed, taking in the disheveled and mud-covered clothing, the torn book bag strap, and the split lip that was clotted with drying blood. Mort peered up at him through unruly black bangs, hoping he wouldn't see the shiner forming. "Were you in another fight?"

Which was a manlier way of asking whether he'd been held down by those boys from St. Mary's Catholic School and beaten up. "Yeah," Mort admitted, and licked at his bottom lip painfully.

Gareth Toynbee folded his newspaper, trying to remain calm. It wasn't his son he was mad at, it was those little punks who seemed to have nothing better to do than wait after school to jump on kids who were different. Born with only four fingers on each hand and with skin so fair it was almost white, Mort couldn't really help but be a walking target for such attacks.

He reached out and brushed his son's hair away from his eyes, examining them. Yes, there would be a glorious bruise there in the morning. Mortimer seemed to sense his disappointment and lowered his head, shoulders hunching forward into his customary slump. Gareth hated when he did that; he looked far too old.

"The next time those boys get anywhere near you, I want you to give them a good punch in the nose. You remember how to make a fist like I showed you, right? How to put your shoulder and hip into it?"

Mort nodded, not bothering to say it wouldn't work. He'd tried it the first time and he'd learned that while one hit might get in, it was about as practical as punching an angry hornet's nest; either way you were going to wind up in an awful lot of pain.

Gareth seemed satisfied however and continued carding his fingers through the boy's hair, brushing out dirt and leaves and at least one cigarette butt. He wished Mort would stand up straighter.

"Draw anything new today?" he asked, and like magic, it worked. Mortimer's lips tugged up in a smile and he rummaged in the backpack to produce a worn notebook. Gareth continued grooming the boy's hair as Mort got to the right page, then looked indulgently down at the various sketches.

Anna had told him that Mort's escape from the daily grind was drawing, and that he should encourage his son's interest in the arts if that was what the boy had chosen as a hobby. Not too long ago, Mortimer had told both his parents that he was perfectly content to sit and draw during recess. That in fact, he was much happier sketching than playing rugby or tether-ball with the other kids. Really.

And because neither of them wanted to face the possibility Mort was never invited to play with anyone, they had let it lie.

Gareth let his eyes roam over the rough pencils, noticing how good Mortimer was at drawing hands. Normal, non-webbed, five-fingered hands. Never his own.

"Not bad, kiddo," he said, flipping to another page. Fast sketches of girls - always at a three-quarter turn, or with their backs to the viewer. Obviously they were unwitting models; he'd scribbled their forms quickly before they could look over and see what he was doing. Mortimer was noticing girls at least, which gave Gareth a secret swell of relief in his chest.

Mort fairly glowed under the praise and ducked his head obligingly as Gareth tousled the dark curls. "Why don't you go clean up and we'll see about sneaking in an ice-cream sandwich before dinner? Our secret, eh?" He handed the notebook back and watch Mort scamper off to the bathroom, all injuries seemingly forgotten in his glee.

Soon enough, Gareth thought with a pang, ice-cream wouldn't be able to make the boy shrug off what the rest of the world had to say about his differences. Even now, he wasn't certain it did.

As much as he wanted to take a baseball bat to the kneecaps of the little bastards who tormented Mortimer on a near-daily basis, he knew that letting one's father take care of the bullies was not a man's way of solving problems. It was Gareth's job to lead by example. When life threw shit at you, you either learned to duck or you threw back some of your own.

That was his philosophy on life anyway.

Of course, Gareth's chance to put said philosophy into practice came around shortly, when his job on the road construction site was unexpectedly declared obsolete. Having not quite ducked in time, he was laid off - along with dozens of fellow workers. A press conference revealed that the city's funds for road improvement had been compromised by a new bill written by some yuppie idiot and then passed through by a group of even bigger idiots.

Basically, no road construction projects for at least three years, on the belief that the city's freshwater aquifer might be getting contaminated with salt water from the harbor. The appropriate research had to be done and then the bill had to be re-evaluated and rewritten, or simply tossed out. A sound environmental worry - except that the city's aquifer was located at least one hundred miles inland according to accurate city charts.

Everyone knew it. Gareth's boss knew it. Gareth and his coworkers knew it. The government yuppies representing them had either read the chart upside down or used it for toilet paper instead of reading it at all. There was nothing anyone could do but find work out of city limits, which most of them did. Though the most stubborn of the lot had planned simply to hang up their hats, collect unemployment, and wait with misplaced faith for the world to come to its senses.

Anna had not seen any sense whatsoever in such a plan.

"Gareth, this is not going to fix itself if you just sit on your bum and eat chips all day in front of the television! The unemployment barely covers the mortgage, and my job only just pays for groceries and other bills. And let me tell you something, mister. They are starting to lay off on personnel at the office, so if I lose my job - we're officially screwed."

Mortimer watched his mother from the living room, one hand on her hip and the other holding the cheese-covered spatula to illustrate her point. He wasn't paying any attention to the television, just watching the debate going on in the kitchen. It was far more interesting than the baseball game, which he'd only turned on to make his father happy.

Dad was a lot harder to make smile these days, though. So much that he'd stopped showing off his art notebook after school and he'd started taking different routes home every day to throw off the St. Mary's boys.

"Listen, your mom said she'd help with the mortgage," his father grunted, around a mouthful of macaroni. There was a sudden clang of cutlery that made Mort jump and nearly upset his own bowl onto the carpet.

"You have absolutely no right to ask her for money after you sent her off to live at Pin Oak! I still can't believe you practically bullied her into that!"

"I didn't bully her," Gareth protested vehemently. "I told her the government would pay for her to stay in a retirement home because of her bad hip, and after we talked about it she agreed it was for the best! Look at us, Ann! We're just one inch ahead of being in debt, for chrissakes! Over groceries, because you over-drafted the account!"

"I wouldn't have over-drafted anything if you hadn't spent thirty bucks filling up your truck! Which you never even use, it just sits there in the driveway all week while you eat and watch your damned sport games!"

Mort sheepishly dug the remote control out of the sofa and changed the channel to the news.

"Ann, would ya lay off? Look, the thing with your mom was hard for me too. But you have to agree it's a good thing Myrtle's living where someone can take care of her and she doesn't have to worry about going hungry."

"My mother was one of the only people besides Mortimer who kept me sane around here. At least she helped keep the house clean! That living room is a pig-sty!"

More angry bustling in the kitchen. Mortimer looked down at all the empty chip packets and crumbs and soda cans and crept down off the armchair. He picked up the biggest of the bags and quietly started stuffing trash into it. Maybe it would make his parents stop fighting if he cleaned. They had never picked on each other like this before.

"I'll look for work tomorrow, alright? Is that what you want - for me to go out every day, wasting gas, when sooner or later they're gonna realize how ass-backwards they're being about this whole aquifer thing and start hiring construction crews here again! It's not worth the gas money to drive clear out to Albany every damn day!"

His mother was frostily silent, save for the slamming of cupboards and dishes. Mort snuck out of the living room with his bag full of trash and walked barefoot to the dumpster in the alley. Mom would come out soon and see that the living room wasn't as bad as before. And maybe she and Dad would make up then. In the meantime he'd just stay out here for a while, out of the way.

From inside there was the sound of a dish breaking.

Yep. Staying out here was a great plan. Everything would be just fine by the time he went back in. To while the time away, he glanced down and tried to figure out which side of the family he got his awkwardly long tridactyl feet from. And the webbing - that too was a mystery.

His dad had once told him that he could get the webbing cut out by a doctor when he was older - or maybe even Someday When They Had Money. Webbing between fingers and toes wasn't unheard of; it was just a recessive gene. Doctors did procedures like that all the time. They also could split the middle toe and finger to give him normal hands and feet, if he wanted.

Mortimer had thought it was a wonderful idea despite its scariness. His grandma had an entirely different opinion on the matter. "Just leave the boy alone! So what if he doesn't have the right amount of fingers and toes? Is that a crime nowadays?"

And then, Grandma Myrtle had told him the story of Ann Boleyn, who had not five, but six fingers, who had ended up marrying a king and giving birth to Queen Elizabeth.

Of course the story didn't have a very happy ending, but it was still entertaining considering his mother's first name. It had resulted in fondly remembered daydreams during which he was the secret hidden son of Ann Boleyn, who'd cut off her sixth finger and escaped to the future to live in New York along with her bodyguard knight, Sir Gareth Toynbee. Anyway, it had all made perfect sense when he was eight years old.

He turned his head, listening. The house was quiet. And it was getting cold and starting to turn dark. There was also spooky rustling in the trashcans near the end of the alley. Mortimer turned his back on them, fleeing into the safe circle of light spread by the lights within the house. He heard his mother call his name and went inside, hopeful.

If there was anything worse than being in a doctor's office, Ann didn't want to know what it was. She hated clinics, the sharp smells and the unpleasant music and the out-dated magazines that made it impossible to focus on anything else but the discomfort you were in. Or the discomfort that someone close to you was in.

She flipped through the National Geographic which had been published five years ago and scanned an article about fossils, trying to ignore Mort's attempts to fully disappear into the oversized coat. It was the middle of July, three days after her son's thirteenth birthday, and she had come up with the plan to take Gareth's truck and drive the both of them to see his grandma. Mort had grown up so fast and she wanted her mother to see him while her eyes were still good. Likewise, she wanted Mort to see his grandma before Myrtle was completely confined to a wheelchair.

Ann had never imagined that she would wake up to her son's skin falling off in patches. Or that the skin beneath it would be green and mottled. She had worked hard to conceal her panic in order to soothe Mortimer and to stop him from trying to plaster the old skin back down over his arms. He had refused to leave the house without something to completely cover himself, despite the summer heat.

Frustrated, she turned a page, almost ripping it. She should not have gone to the clinic. Instead she should have taken Mort straight to a hospital, even if they could in no way afford it without insurance. Hospitals at least were air-conditioned. She bit her lip as Mort writhed uncomfortably on the seat, trying to hide from the stares of other patients and find a position that did not yank painfully on the strips of peeling skin.

Not a moment too soon, someone called Mort's name. Ann threw the magazine heedlessly onto the table and got up, gently pulling on Mortimer's arm. He seemed even more reluctant now, resisting her a little. As they followed the nurse down the corridor, Mort went from freezing up to desperately matching her stride in order to stay as close to her as possible. Ann could feel him shaking and put an arm around his shoulders.

"Okay, honey, take off your jacket," the nurse said gently. For a moment, Mort's grip tightened on the ends, keeping it closed more firmly. Then he let go with a shudder and let the parka drop to his ankles. Ann tried very hard to forgive the nurse for recoiling at the sight. At least the woman didn't make a sound and smoothed professionalism back onto her face.

"Just get up on the table and remove the rest of your clothes, down to your underwear. The doctor will be in shortly."

Mortimer gave Ann a pleading look that made her stomach drop. She knew without words what he was asking. "Yes, you have to. He has to see your skin, Mort."

As he took off shirt and jeans, Ann made a point of staring at the pictures on the wall and busied herself with hanging the parka up on the available coat-hooks. She knew what it was like being asked to undress in front of God, strangers, and your own mother when you hit puberty - every kid had to have been there before. But how many of them had turned green on top of it? She heard the paper crackle as her son climbed up onto the table.

Ann longed to just hold him as he pulled his knees up to his chest, but she knew it was probably the last thing he wanted. She was equally sure that he did not want her to leave and wait outside. Even if he asked her to, Ann wasn't sure she could. She didn't know what doctor was seeing him or what he was like.

The examination itself had been incredibly hard to watch. Mortimer had not cried out at any point, but she knew each time he'd wanted to. Several times, he had looked so longingly at the coat hanging up by the door that she nearly reached for it herself. The room was now filled with more of the clinic's staff than either she or her son were comfortable with. Ann darkly suspected about half the people here were only present to gawk at the green kid.

Ann stood up, having finally had enough of people poking and prodding at Mort and generally not doing anything but throw around theories. She put herself between the table and the rest of the room, an action which caused the discussion between two doctors and the clinic's dermatologist to trail off and die.

They stared at her as if just realizing she was still in the room. Ann felt her stomach squirm, wondering if they'd try to kick her out for interfering. Behind her, Mortimer shifted to drop his forehead gratefully against her shoulder and she rediscovered her voice.

"Gentlemen, unless you know exactly what's wrong with him and how to help him, I think I will take him to another clinic."

"Ma'am, I'm actually going to suggest you take your boy to the hospital. This isn't like anything I've seen. It could be a new disease, or parasite. It's for his own safety as well as the public's that he be examined - possibly held for a few nights."

Mort made no sound at all, but Ann could hear his terror. "Do you think it's a disease or a parasite?"

"I'm not saying it is, but I'm not saying it isn't either. It could be nothing but an abnormality in skin pigmentation -"

"If he were your son, what would you do?" Ann persisted, torn. "Would you put him and the rest of your family through hell for possibly nothing?"

Two of the doctors looked at one another. Dr. Klinar, the dermatologist, finally sighed. He said something low to his colleagues and they nodded, promptly leaving the room. Ann folded her arms nervously as he shut the door and turned back to her and Mort.

"For this? Not necessarily. Though I advise you to take him to the hospital anyway, there is something I think you should consider. I haven't seen cases exactly like Mortimer's, but lately parents have been taking in teenagers with very unusual changes to their body. If the skin was peeling off before it was dead, then I would be leaning more toward parasites. But his skin is fully formed and despite the coloration, it seems healthy. So do the rest of his vital signs. To me, this seems more of a genetic mutation than anything hazardous. I can't tell you for sure, but there is no direct evidence pointing to anything else without further testing."

Ann swallowed, feeling something akin to relief wash over her, which made her feel guilty. It wasn't the insurance that was important. It was Mortimer. Her own fear and mistrust of hospitals and doctors was making her worry more about him being trapped there and mistreated, rather than whatever he actually had. She knew she had to get over that.

Right now, she had to discuss this with Gareth and with her mother if possible. She wished the doctors here could have at least given her an inkling as to what was going on. Their complete bewilderment and guesswork didn't do much to install her with faith about the hospital staff's capabilities.

"Thank you," she said after a long pause. "I think I need to talk to my husband before I decide anything."

Dr. Klinar nodded politely at the dismissal and left the office. Ann was left alone with her son.

"Mortimer, get dressed. We're going home."

Mortimer had all but scrambled into the car as soon as they saw it, heedless of the burning seatbelt as he buckled it across his lap. Ann turned the engine on and blasted the air conditioner his way as she sat more gingerly on the hot vinyl seat so that it didn't burn her thighs. The door on her side was left ajar, trying to collect fresh air into the cabin before their drive home.

How Mortimer managed not to pass out in the seat beside her was a marvel. He had his hood up to hide the peeling gashes across his face, despite the fact that it was at least ninety degrees out here. A cold shower would probably do him very good once they got home.

If Gareth was where Ann had left him, they could talk about what this meant. He'd have to find a job now - it was imperative. If they had extra income, they could see about buying health insurance from a non-business provider. Just in case they had to take Mort to the hospital later.

She was still very against the idea. Ann wondered if she was somehow wired wrong. Her own mother had so often taken her to the doctor's office for the least little thing, and it now seemed like such a natural maternal instinct to have. But Ann did not have it. Mortimer's slight birth defects had instead made her want to shield him from such places.

Mort's hand went up and disappeared within the parka hood. With a start, she realized he'd been crying silently. When had that started? He'd never been able to hide it so well before.

"Oh, baby, come here," she soothed and kept her arms out patiently as he hesitated for a moment, then undid his belt and crawled across the seat to let her hold him. His skin probably felt unbearable in this heat, but he stayed put as she rubbed circles on his back. "You can take it off now. We'll be driving."

Mortimer only shook his head. "I'm not that hot. It's okay." He swallowed. "Mom, I don't want to go to the hospital. I'm fine. I know I freaked out this morning, but maybe green skin isn't so bad because it's only the stuff that's falling off that hurts. And anyway, we don't have insurance and we can't afford it if we go. So I don't want to go."

She had difficulty swallowing for a few moments and her eyes were suddenly burning. "I want you to be okay, Mort. Not just okay, healthy."

"I can be healthy with green skin. Lots of healthy things have green skin. The Hulk does, and he's fine."

Ann made a wry face. "Honey, the Hulk is a government-funded project. I don't think he really counts." And wasn't that just a tabloid rumor anyway?

"But he's fine isn't he? And my skin isn't going to go back to normal no matter what the doctors do anyway. If we go to the hospital, they're going to hold me and do tests and if they can't find out what did this, I might never get to see you again."

Mort stopped talking as his throat closed up. Ann bit her lip against a sob and slid her fingers into the hood to stroke her son's face.

"That won't happen to you. I promise, okay? As for the money, don't you worry about that. I'd pay anything just to hear that you are going to be around for a very long time. Whatever that costs, it's worth every penny. So don't you worry about it. We're going to go home now," Ann said, wiping at her eyes. "And we're going to just relax for a bit. Take things one step at a time, okay?"

She felt Mortimer nod and let him sit back up. The ride home was long and defeated.

His skin condition did not change for the better, save for the dead skin at last coming off by the end of the week. Aside from that celebratory occasion, it stayed the same dark green with a mosaic of slightly darker spots down his back. The one thing his parents had unanimously agreed on was that he was not going to go back to school once summer ended.

This was good and bad in different ways; Mort found that he was spared the stress of having to somehow hide his odd coloration on top of his unusual number of digits but he also found that without classes, he was bored. Lately his art subjects were limited to what he could see outside of windows. Over the weeks he'd filled his sketchbook pages with sketches of postmen, cats, stray dogs, squirrels and the occasional rat, then for a change he switched to drawing insects trapped inside. It drove his mother crazy.

"Here, Mort, move -" she'd said once, advancing on the window with a newspaper.

"No! Mom wait -" One good-aimed swat later and the hornet was lying dead on the windowsill. Mort's shoulders dropped in disappointment. "But I was drawing that."

"Well . . . now it's fully pose-able," Ann had countered. Mort's eyes had lit up as he made a considering noise. She'd quickly fled the room, too squeamish to watch him act on that information.

Alternatively, his mother would bring home books or make up problem sheets for him to keep him on the ball. After the initial week of groaning, Mort had actually thrown himself into the schoolwork for lack of anything better to do.

Life seemed to crawl back into its old familiar haunts. Along with Ann going to her office job from morning to afternoon, his father had started to spend less time at home, either looking for a job or working a part-time contract on a building. Mort rarely got to talk to him anymore.

Late at night, Gareth would come home, flop onto the chair and turn on the television. He would never check in on Mortimer to see if the boy was awake. On the occasions that Mort waited up for him, he'd announce that he was completely beat and was going straight to a shower and then bed.

It never occurred to Mortimer that Gareth was avoiding him on purpose - not until the one night he came out of the bathroom to hear furious whispered arguing from his parents' room.

"Gareth, I cannot believe we are having this discussion again. I can't believe you would even bring something like that up."

"Ann, listen. This school actually sounds like the real deal. It's made for people like Mortimer, people with odd conditions or strange abilities. He'd fit in there."

"And how convenient that it's all the way upstate. Far from where you have to deal with him," Ann snapped.

"This has nothing to do with your mother, Ann. This is about our son. Xavier's Institute seems like a great place for him."

"Do you actually know anything about this man?"

"I have his number on his card. Someone gave it to me at a job site, said Xavier took in his own kid last month. Great guy, paid off the medical bills and everything. Only thing wrong with his son was that he was sprouting hair where he shouldn't be. All over his body. Some sort of recessive gene. Maybe that's what Mort has."

"So this man is a collector? He collects people who are different? Has this 'friend' of yours even heard from his son lately?" Ann's voice raised in alarm.

Gareth snorted, amused. "Ann, stop being such a worrywart. Come on."

"You aren't worried enough! Rich people don't just go around taking in kids with odd medical cases and - and then pay the parents off! Not for any good reasons! The whole thing sounds sordid."

"Well, I think Mortimer should go. It's better than him moping around and unable to leave the house. Don't look at me that way - he can't be happy here! No boy in their right mind would be content just sitting in front of a window all day!"

"Gareth, all I can think of right now is you telling me that my mother would be happier living in an old folk's home than here. She was still able to walk when she lived here, still able to live for herself. I went up there to visit her recently and I saw her doing absolutely nothing. She tries to hide it, but she is completely miserable. Can't even stand up without the help of a walker now! For you to just sit here and act like sending family away is the answer to everything wrong in your life . . . it's sick! I am not going to send Mortimer anywhere until he's of legal age, and even then, only if he wants to go! You just have to deal with it."

"Xavier's is a better place for him. You're being selfish. You're frightened, so you want to smother him and keep him close to you."

"At least I talk to him! You've barely said two words to him all month!"

Mort felt a sharp pain in his chest. Had it been that long? He just figured he had bad timing is all. That his father's new job really took the strength out of him each night. He leaned his head closer to the door, reluctantly eavesdropping.

"I can't bear to look at him, Ann! I just can't. He's got no future. He'll never have a girlfriend, never graduate junior high, never get to go to a dance or play football with other kids. He has nothing here."

"He has a family. A mother and a father who love him. So what if he's not going to be perfectly normal. When did that ever matter?"

"I could deal with it when he had just the fingers and toes wrong, but this? He's green, Ann. For chrissakes, that's horrible - he's never going to fit into society unless some miracle turns one half of the population into freaks like him."

There was a stony silence in which Mort could feel his heart break. He bit his lip, concentrating on not making a sound.

"How could you even think that word?" his mother finally hissed, voice breathless with rage.

"You know what I meant. I don't think he's a freak, it's just . . . that's how everyone else is going to see him. He won't feel so alone if he goes to this Institute."

"Gareth, you don't even know what's there! You don't know anything about Xavier, you don't know if there are bars on the windows or restraints on the beds - you don't know who these people are or what they could do to Mort! You don't even seem to care, so long as you don't have to deal with him! Yes, he's going to get hurt by what's out there. He's going to feel isolated and alone and we're not going to be able to make all the pain go away. But sending him away to live with strangers? What do you think that's going to do to him?"

"Give him a fighting chance, maybe?" retorted Gareth. "Ann, if I were his age and I had his defects? I would have killed myself by now."

Mort's face twisted in grief and he escaped to his bedroom, unable to stand out here another minute. He had heard enough and he didn't want to listen anymore. Mom was raising her voice and now so was his father, but Mort shut his door and slipped on a pair of old headphones, blasting music to drown them out.

He curled up on his side and wept bitterly, unable to hear anything but his father's words still echoing in his head.


	2. Chapter 2

Watching other children at school was hard. Gareth frowned deeply, letting the jackhammer drown out the sound of their voices drifting over from the courtyard. St. Mary's had hired him along with others for the library remodel and though the pay was good, every day was a trial. Not because of the work.

He kept seeing kids who looked like Mort - black hair, hazel eyes, and bright smile - running along with friends and playing soccer. Or occasionally walking with a pretty girl along a fence covered in honeysuckle vines. Seeing such reminders of what he couldn't have only added to Gareth's resentment. Some parents truly did not know how lucky they were.

Occasionally he'd run into old friends who asked about his family, asked about Mortimer. Gareth would often find himself lying that they had sent him off to a private school - which of course was not the case since Ann had put her foot down on the subject.

He was wary of bringing up the subject again - she was lately coming down with something and testier than usual. He'd woken up to her twice this week, curled forward in bed - nearly bent in half - as she tried to relieve the pain in her stomach. Trying to rub her back had only made things worse.

Feeling guilty and worried, Gareth had turned himself around - making an effort at cleaning the dishes and chipping in with housework. He'd swallowed his personal pain to spend time talking with their son. Or he'd at least tried to; the boy was skittish around him lately. Whenever they were in the same room together, Mort would act as though he was doing something wrong by being there.

Lately, Gareth wondered if the kid had developed some kind of clinical depression on top of everything else. Wouldn't that just be perfect. Then he could have the full experience of raising a kid messed up in the head as well as physically. Gareth huffed, turning the jackhammer off and setting it down to wipe at his face. He hadn't signed on to be that kind of parent; this was asking just a little much of anybody.

"Toynbee!" James shouted, pelting around the building. Gareth lowered his water bottle, swallowing, feeling the slight surreal lightheadedness that usually came before bad news. James never ran. He was a twenty-year old kid from California who acted more like a model for jeans than a drywall contractor. At his fastest, James sauntered.

He paused to catch his breath. "Your wife. She collapsed at work. They're taking her to the hospital. Sam already knows. He said to tell you to just drop your work and go."

The rest was needless, Gareth was already running for his truck.

Ann's eyes were closed and her skin was jaundiced. Had she lost weight? He hadn't realized just how little of dinner she'd been eating lately, but now seeing her on the bed, her small body surrounded by tubes and wires, he remembered just how many times she'd simply scraped the contents of her plate back into Tupperware containers.

They had seen to her without paperwork, assuming that he had insurance. Assuming that he was not just a part-time worker who didn't qualify for benefits. Gareth wasn't going to say a damned thing until he knew what was wrong with her. The bastards had to make her stable either way.

Gareth sat in the chair beside her, waiting for the doctor and afraid to take her hand. He should have listened. He should have gotten private insurance in case something like this happened.

Twenty minutes later, he learned that it didn't matter anymore.

"We've run some tests, but your wife is showing all the positive signs of advanced pancreatic cancer," the young doctor told him. Gareth blinked at him, heart pounding.

"What does that mean exactly? How can it be advanced? This is the first time anything like this has happened!"

"This type of cancer usually doesn't have early symptoms. Not symptoms anyone would go in for a checkup over. It's very often mistaken for ulcers or upset stomach or simply back pains."

"She-She was so worried about our son. I'm sure she never even thought about herself. She's been having back pains and . . ."

And Gareth might have been able to tell her to go in earlier than this. To do something about it.

"Even by then, it was too late," the doctor told him, adjusting his glasses. "I'm sorry. There's really not much we can do except make her comfortable."

"What - but wait, how long does she have? Chemotherapy won't help?"

"We're testing for a diagnosis. We're also trying to see how far along the cancer has spread. At this point, she has anywhere from three months to two weeks, possibly less than that."

Gareth swallowed hard.

"Do you have anyone you need to call? There's a pay phone just down the corridor."

He thought about Mortimer and his throat knotted. He didn't know what to tell the boy. And he wanted to be alone with Ann right now. He needed to be. Gareth shook his head and sat back down numbly, waiting for his wife to wake up.

The doctor's estimation had been too optimistic. Ann didn't have weeks left. She barely had two days. A priest was in the room by the end of the night, holding his book and standing quietly nearby like some kind of specter. Gareth didn't talk to him much. He didn't let go of Ann's hand, not even when the nurses came to change her catheter bag, filled with dark fluid that did not look in any way healthy.

He spoke to her, soothed her, apologized that Mortimer wasn't here. Mort would only be upset, and frightened, he reasoned to her still body. The staff would probably have kept him quarantined anyway, for fear that he infect her with whatever had turned his skin green. And if he'd had to deal with that, Gareth wouldn't have enough time to tell her that he loved her before she left this world.

He didn't sleep, didn't eat, barely left her side to drink or use the facilities. And at nine forty-three at night on the second day, her body began to fail. Gareth was moved aside as nurses rushed in, trying to revive her. He heard the priest start to murmur prayers and wanted to shake the man, to shut him up. Gareth clenched his fists and prayed along with him, helpless and forgetting half the words.

Within moments, Ann had slipped away. She hadn't even woken up.

The boy yelped, rolling off the couch in a tangle of blankets. He looked up wildly, trying to figure out what had woken him. The screen door was letting all the light through and he could have sworn he'd closed both and locked them before lying down. Someone was in the kitchen right now; he could hear cabinets opening.

Mort looked around for the portable phone and fished it out of the couch cushions, seeing that it was past midnight. Nobody had come home for two days or told him what was going on and he hadn't dared call the police, not when he was technically not supposed to be left home alone.

But someone else was home now and he struggled to get up, kicking at the blankets and stumbling to the kitchen. "Dad?" he called hopefully. The broad shoulders certainly looked it.

Gareth had his back to him, pouring an unsteady glass of port. "Go to bed," he muttered and downed the shot. The damned bar had stopped serving alcohol to him after a point. Friends had given him a ride home.

"Go to b- is that all you're gonna say? Where've you been, I've been worried? Where's Mom?"

Gareth grit his teeth. Not now. He didn't need this now. Damned screen door must have woken the kid up.

"Dad, where is Mom?" Mort asked again, voice shaking this time.

"She's dead."

There was a nice thick pause after that. If the kid started crying, Gareth swore he was walking right out of the house again. Let the cops take him in. A night in jail would be preferable to this.

"What do you mean she's dead?" Mort managed to get out. "She can't be dead. You would have called."

"I didn't call. She had pancree - pancr - some kinda fucking cancer. Wasn't any point in you being there. She never even woke up."

"But . . ." Mort's voice was wavering unsteadily. "Why didn't you call?" he asked helplessly, like a broken record.

"And what the hell was I supposed to say? Your mom is going to die, don't bother coming to the hospital because they won't let you see her? Have you looked in the fucking mirror at all, kid? They wouldn't have let you past the lobby!"

"You still could have told me!" he insisted, breath hitching. Gareth cursed loudly and smashed the tumbler into the sink, making Mort flinch.

"Shut the hell up! It's your fault - she could have caught it early if she'd gone for a damned check up! She would still be here if she hadn't been so fucking worried about you!" he yelled, shoving Mort's chest. The boy stumbled backwards and twisted gracefully to jump a few feet away, landing like a cat. He looked surprised at the feat, but Gareth stared at him in disgust. "She always worried about you."

He was hurt. He was mad at himself for his blindness. It seemed only fair that Mortimer feel just as hurt and full of blame as he did. Maybe even a little more.

"And what did it ever get her, huh! A son who's a fucking freak! A monster - look at you!" He grabbed the boy by the hair, ignoring the wails as he dragged Mort down the hall to the bathroom and held him in front of the mirror. "You don't look like anything I can even remember her by. Do you?" he hissed in Mortimer's ear.

Mort didn't understand it wasn't a rhetorical question until Gareth shook him, still holding him by the hair. Eyes watering, he looked at his reflection. He had his mother's dark hair and narrow shoulders. He had her mouth and her nose set in his father's slightly angular face. But his golden eyes and green skin and everything else that was wrong with him belonged to nobody but himself.

"Do you?"

Whimpering, Mort closed his eyes, tried to look away. "No," he admitted quietly.

Gareth shoved him out into the hallway, grabbing his arm harshly as he tried to run for his bedroom. He made the boy face him. "You just remember that. And you remember that it's just as much your fucking fault as it is mine that she's dead!"

"D-Dad -" Mortimer begged, unable to take it anymore. He clutched at the man's shirt, scared and hurt and wanting him to take it all back. "Dad, please -"

He cried out as Gareth wrenched his arm, shoving him bodily into his room so that he fell hard against a shelf. Mort gasped for air, side flaring with pain as books fell down around him. He tried to sit up. Gareth was twisting a clothes-hanger around the outside doorknob, eyes cold. "Dad -"

"You call me that again, kid, I'll fucking belt you one. Haven't been my son since you were born."

The words slammed straight into his chest, hurting more than anything he'd ever experienced. Mort let out a desperate sob, unable to get up and go to him. He tried, but Gareth was already slamming the door shut, tying it against the frame so it could not open from the inside.

"Don't - don't!" he breathed painfully. There was a scream building up somewhere but it was too big for his lungs to hold; all he could do was gasp. After what seemed like decades, he managed to crawl to the door and grappled with it, trying to force it back open. His mind was having trouble processing things. Mom was dead. She was dead. She'd been smiling at him two mornings ago, and now she was gone. And Dad had just . .

He moaned, clawing at the surface of the door frantically. The pressure in his chest was suddenly crushing. It was his fault. It was all his fault - he should have noticed Mom was sick. Should have told her to take him to the hospital even though he was scared. Maybe the doctors would have noticed something. Maybe they could have saved her.

Mort's lungs finally permitted a low cry and more followed it. He yanked on the door, kicked it, clawed it. The more noise the better - he didn't care if his father came back to hit him. He was suddenly terrified of being alone with this, with what he'd done.

Mort called out to him desperately, trailing off into helpless sobbing when there was only silence to answer him. Had the man left him? Left the house? Was he alone again? He was crying too hard to listen. Eventually he lost strength, curling onto his side and giving into exhaustion.

Something inside him was destroyed utterly by the time the sun rose.

His son looked dead, lying on the floor like that. Gareth stared at him, saying nothing to disturb Mort's sleep. Somewhere inside he was burning with shame, but there was no Ann to answer to anymore. There was barely even God.

Gareth swallowed. His mouth had tasted as though someone had stuffed used socks in it by morning. He had washed the taste away with soda, and then some sherry. Alcohol made the pain go away. It also banished guilt, even as Mort was a living reminder of it.

After a space, he reached out his foot and nudged Mortimer in the ribs, making the boy stir. "Get up," he muttered.

Awkwardly, Mortimer obeyed and kept his posture entirely submissive. He looked weak, feeble, broken. Again that small spark of shame lit up in the pit of Gareth's stomach, but he solved that problem by simply looking away and not returning the pale hope in the boy's eyes.

Mortimer's light touch on his wrist was suddenly there, trembling. A reluctant glance told Gareth that the boy was clearly expecting to be hit, yet was leaning closer to him. No. The older man stepped away, making Mort stumble and catch himself alone. The hurt in the boy's eyes pierced like a knife. Gareth turned away and escaped to his chair in the living room.

He listened to the sound of his son shambling into the bathroom to wash his face or shower or maybe cry. He told himself that he didn't care. The next few gulps of sherry convinced him.

Days seemed to slip by this way, one after the other. He could almost believe it was pleasant without Ann around, if he fooled himself. Nobody to nag at you. Nobody to tell you to quit drinking.

His boss had called two weeks later when he failed to respond to any messages, reluctantly telling him that he had to let him go and offering his sympathy. Gareth had flipped the machine off and taken a nap.

He'd woken up with his hands throbbing as though he'd been in a fight. Gareth examined his knuckles which were red and tried to remember what had happened. Something to do with the pizza box laying open and empty by his feet. He barely even remembered ordering it.

Had it been last night? Had he paid the pizza guy or punched him out? Well, there was none left now. He wasn't sure if there was any food left; he hadn't bothered to leave the house much. Certainly not for groceries.

Needing noise, Gareth turned on the television. Nothing was on that was any good without beer.

Mort stuffed another shirt into his backpack, wrapping it around the sketchbook which held photographs in it. They were the most important thing he was taking from this house. The other was a card that he'd found on the kitchen counter. The address to Xavier's Institute wasn't familiar, but he could ask around. He could make his way there. Other kids had probably made it there alone.

He left the empty frames in a neat pile on his desk and slowly opened the bedroom door. The TV was on, illuminating the dark bruises on his face and neck.

Last night, Mort had been hungry and he'd mistakenly presumed the last two slices of pizza were his. It had been all the excuse his father had seemed to need.

He pulled the hood of his jacket over his face and adjusted his backpack, walking as silently as he could to the door. Right now, Gareth was snoring in the kind of sleep that even the screen door wouldn't wake him from. Not like the man would stop him if it did.

Mort didn't look back as he walked out onto the porch, waiting for the usual slam. It never came. Alarmed, he turned back and saw that the screen door was stuck open, whether by the closer finally rusting or by some other sort of intervention. He managed a frail grin. It was like the house was helping him get away.

Once again, he made sure that all the skin that he could cover was hidden under fabric. The dark of night should help with that anyway. He wasn't sure what shelter he'd find during the day, but he figured he could sleep there and travel again when it was dark.

Finally sure that he was doing something right for once, he stepped off the porch and started walking. Once he got to the Institute, everything would be just fine. Mort was sure of it.

He never made it there.

The night was a rare peaceful one, the kind of hot summer night that made the sky turn dark purple - or dark red where the clouds hung over the city. There were no lights in the abandoned truck yard and the yellow quarter moon cast pale light on the arches beneath the freeway's bridge.

Marcus thought he'd made it very clear that he was not interested in recruits. So when Andre and Theo came up to him with an unknown third, wearing the customary bag over the head, he sighed sharply. Apparently the peaceful night was about to end in him breaking a few stubborn skulls.

"Yo, I know what you're gonna say about this, Marco - but lookit -" Theo started, pulling the figure closer. The surprise recruit started to resist, nearly slipping out of his hold, but Andre still had a grip on him. Marcus saw a backpack and nearly groaned. Great, a runaway. And a skittish one too.

He stared at Theo flatly, ready to lay into him as soon as this little show was over and the kid was either dead or running away for his life. Marcus toyed with his knife, not sure which mood he was in just yet.

"Chill, man, chill," Andre shouted. A pleading noise came from under the sack before Theo rudely ripped it away. The kid went limp just then, trying to relax out of their hold and hide his face behind his hair.

"Light." Marcus ordered, getting up and walking over to him. Someone produced it immediately, training a flashlight on Mort. "Look up at me."

When there was no response other than a shudder, Marcus knelt and reached out to part the strands of hair away from the boy's face. So the kid was green, in every sense of the word.

"The guy was in our territory. I was gonna ice him, but thought you'd wanted to see," Theo could not seem to help but butt in.

Mort made another noise and strained to curl down further, shaking. Marcus saw the damage to his face; a swollen lip and bruises. They went down the side of his neck and disappeared beneath the collar of his jacket. He reached for it, ignoring Mort's attempt to flinch away, and pulled the fabric to the side.

A glance told him that the bruises covering Mort's chest were days old, nothing his boys could have done. Good. He gently rearranged Mort's clothing, then carefully swept a few tendrils of hair behind the boy's ear.

"We're not gonna ice you," he said, hoping he sounded relatively soothing. His voice was rough from barking orders. "Relax."

The boy had gone slightly glassy eyed and shivered as Marcus inspected him further. His teeth were sharp too and his legs had looked strong. Poor kid probably hadn't grown into them yet. Marcus' mind was just about made up. He motioned for Andre and Theo to release him.

"What's your name?"

"M-Mortimer," the boy croaked out. Several snorts sounded behind Marcus and were quickly covered up.

Marcus scowled over his shoulder, honing in on the loudest source. "Yeah, like you've got anything to talk about, Albertino?"

More laughter, this time Albertino rolled his eyes good-naturedly. Still kneeling in the gravel and dirt, Mort seemed to loose a bit of tension in his shoulders.

"So where are you heading, Mort?" Marcus asked.

"Uptown New York? I sorta h-have a place to go to. For people like me."

"For muties?"

Mort blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Muties. Mutants. You're a mutant, aren't ya?" He was meant with a blank stare and sighed. Nobody had told this kid anything, had they? "Kid, you aren't the only one who went through some 'changes', you know? Some are obvious, some aren't. You're one of the obvious ones, so life probably isn't gonna be easy on you. I mean, if those bruises say anything. Those from your old man?"

Mort didn't answer, but his cringe told Marcus everything.

"Yeah, figured. You know, this place you're going to is still pretty far away. New York at night isn't that friendly a place to travel in. It's barely that during the day. Why don't you just kick it with us for a couple nights? Eat some food, get some sleep without worrying about some hobo pissin' on you or stealing your stuff."

Marcus' words were crude, but his voice was gentle - almost affectionate. Mort couldn't help but notice that he was being talked to like a person. He unconsciously leaned toward him, craving the kindness.

Would he have the same thing waiting for him at Xavier's? Maybe his mom was right about that place - it could be just a trap for all he knew. A place where they tortured or experimented on people like him . . . on mutants. Either way, she hadn't wanted him to go. Mort bit his lip, debating.

"Come on, Mort," Marcus coaxed. He knew by the look on the kid's face that he almost had him. Life would be better for him with the Thirteens than out on the street. He'd give Mort membership too - not like other gangs, which would probably just turn him into a pet. Or something worse. "Hang with us. You don't need to go any further, not right now. "

Loose strands of the boy's hair escaped from behind his ear and Marcus unthinkingly tucked them back. It was the perfect length for dreads. Thirteen of them, like the rest of his brothers. That action alone seemed to decide things for Mort. He looked up at Marcus, shivering in the night air.

"I - alright. I'll stay."

And he had stayed, longer than just a few nights. He found life was pretty good with the Thirteens - better than it had been or possibly might have been.

The only thing that Mort really hated about it were the gang wars. He could so easily do without those. Even though Marcus had trained him in knife-fighting and said he was good at it, Mort just didn't feel like a knife sort of person. He wasn't a gun sort of person either, which fortunately Marcus declined to teach him since he was no fan of firearms himself. They were too easily traced, he said.

Actually, Mort never got much of a chance to find out what sort of weapons person he was, since Marcus would move him toward the back when it looked like any actual fighting was going to happen.

When he asked, Marcus simply told Mort that his basic purpose to the Thirteens was to be their scarecrow. A sharp-toothed green guy smiling at them was unnerving to most people.

It was effective with mugging too. His first time, all Mort had to do was come out of the shadows and the poor woman practically threw her purse at his face before running away screaming. That night had made him rather popular with the rest of Marcus' boys; nobody had doubted his place with the gang afterwards.

He still didn't enjoy the fighting. Even if Andre was amazing to watch with his blades, the blood that usually followed turned Mort's stomach.

The Thirteens weren't like the gangs on TV, dealing drugs or shooting at people for fun. Marcus never got them into a fight that didn't have a good reason. And more often than not, even those would end with minimal bloodshed plus assurance that their territory would be respected from now on. That was an equation Mortimer could live with.

Then the Diablos moved into their section of the city. They were small fish in big waters, looking for a chance to appear bigger than they were. The gang was growing, recruiting people alarmingly fast, but Marcus had not appeared concerned. He figured their leader would wear himself out with so many new egos to handle at once, and the anarchy would dissipate them.

But the Diablos didn't dissipate. They only got more brutal.

Now when there were fights, Mort saw at least one death. He watched members of his family lay where they dropped. Soon, Marcus no longer had a choice in the matter of keeping Mortimer safe.

The Thirteens were dwindling in number and Marcus had found three new recruits who looked more like red shirts than anyone useful in a fight. Mort hated to think that, considering his own lack of skill, but it was true. He'd seen them training and they were actually worse than he was.

There was no time to do anything about that by the next time the Diablos attacked. It was both the first and last gang war Mort would ever be forced to participate in.

Streetlights blurred in his vision, becoming a constant line of light. When Mort next got his bearings, it was no longer in some alley with three cops racing towards him.

Instead, a man with white hair was staring at him in curiosity. Maybe even a little pity. Strong hands gripped his shoulders as he swayed, tasting blood and bile.

"Alright?" he asked.

No. Mortimer was not alright. He'd just killed someone. He hadn't even known his legs could do that. The Diablo had lunged with a knife and he'd simply kicked out of pure instinct.

"Sit," the man said firmly and then made him obey. Mort wound up sitting on someone's porch stairs, finding the world slightly less sideways than before. He still didn't understand why he wasn't staring at the other teenaged boy on the ground, choking on blood and curled around his ribs.

"Hey, if you vomit on these shoes, you're buying them."

Mort's expression must've been terrible, for the white-haired man knelt down to his level. "Just joking. Kid, look at me. Focus. We can't stay here and chat forever. The little gang-war of yours was big and the number of cops on the street is starting to worry me. I got you out of there. No need to thank me. Really."

He paused and Mort belatedly realized that it had been sarcasm, and that he should say thank you or something. A finger went to his lips as he opened his mouth.

"My name's Pietro. Call me Quicksilver when we're out in public. Anyway, I helped you because you're a mutant, like me. And frankly, I think you could do better than being the mascot of some lowlife street gang."

"T-They're not low-lives," Mort argued, thinking of how Marcus had . . . had just been there for him when he'd had nobody. "And I'm not their mascot."

"Yeah sure, whatever," Pietro muttered, mostly under his breath. "Look, my point is that I'm giving you a chance to be part of something bigger than this. A chance to be with people like you. If you come with me, I can show you that you don't have to live like this."

"I have to go. I have to find Marcus." Mort tried to stand up, barely managing.

"The cops are going to find you first," Pietro warned him, standing up as well. "They're combing the streets for you and for them. For anyone who knows information about you. Technically this counts as a mutant attack against a human. Pretty serious stuff."

Mortimer had made it halfway down to the mouth of the alley and stopped, listening to Pietro's words. He wanted to find Marcus. Failing that, he wanted lie down on the old beat up couch in Marcus' house and just sleep for a month.

"My guess is you're going to find your friends very ready to hand you over once the cops are finished riding them for information," Pietro said, suddenly in front of him. Mort took a step back, bristling.

"Marcus wouldn't do that."

"Okay. Then go. Find out the hard way. Don't count on me to fish you out of jail when he hands you in for immunity. Sorry for taking up your time, kiddo."

Mort's stomach clenched in fear. He didn't want to go to jail. Marcus wouldn't really turn him in, would he? Even if he didn't, there was nowhere to hide. He stuck out like a sore thumb. Agonized, Mortimer grit his teeth.

"Wait," he called to Pietro, who'd been walking quickly instead of just zipping off.

Pietro heard and turned back to him, smiling.


End file.
